Foolery and Such
by vitko
Summary: [Dreamcatcher] .. An AU Pete/Beaver ficlet... Timed after Beaver's date with Pete's sister (One for the Road). Post break-up and two boys trying to bond. Features 18-year-old Beaver and 17-year-old Pete.


[Pete and Beaver belong to Stephen King, and original canon characters from Dreamcatcher, the book. Original characters have been added for filler. This is all AU. What if Beaver and Pete hadn't have been killed that year at Hole in the Wall? What if they married and tried to get on with their lives? Warning: this is slash. Pete/Beaver slash, in fact. If homosexual ideas offend you, **do not read this**.] 

[Beaver parts written by Vitko. Pete is written by Vitko's partner in crime, who shall remain anonymous at this time.]

Pete doesn't know the details about the situation. After all, Dovie has never much of a talker. She'd caught him in the hallways before lunch, pulling him aside, her face somber, something in her voice regretful, and said, "I broke up with Beaver." That was all, no explanations, just that she'd thought he'd want to know. He'd appreciated that. There's been a sort of uneasiness about the whole situation since it started, but Pete has tried to shy away from prying into their affairs more recently. 

But it is over now, and part of Pete feels he ought not be so relieved about it. Relief is in a way somehow too close to being happy, and he shouldn't be happy that his sister might have just stepped right on his best friend's heart - inadvertently or not. However, he is not thinking too much about that now. He just needs to know if Beaver's okay. So there he is, at Beaver's place now, knocking on his best friend's bedroom door, having been let in by Mr. Clarendon. 

"Beav? It's Pete," he says as he turns the knob and peeks inside. 

It's been a real fuck of a day. He gets to school, and everything's fine. Classes go smoothly, and he even gets one of his technical drawings back with a giant "A" on it. He couldn't be more pleased, except the night before, he'd been up all night, feeling fucking sick to his stomach. He'd not even spent more than five minutes on the phone with Dovie before she told him that they needed to "talk". He didn't have to be a fucking empath to know what the fuck was going to happen next. But he sat there through the entire conversation, silent as she went on about them being "too different" and "wanting different things"... how she "didn't want to hold him back from what he really wanted" and all this fuckin' silly ass bullshit. 

But he took it. Because, hell, what the fuck else are ya supposed to do? Fight a girl and tell her that she's wrong, that she doesn't know what the hell you want? Hell, he ain't no woman and he sure as hell isn't gonna start acting like one now. 

As soon as he gets home from class, he grabs a glass of coke and quickly goes up to his room. Putting on his new AC/DC tape, he lays back on his bed, staring up at the posters and pictures he's tacked to the ceiling. 

There's a knock at the door. 

"It's --" The door opens, and he looks over at Pete, who happens to be peering in. "-- open." 

Pete opens the door the rest of the way, and Beaver just watches him for a few moments before he sits up, sliding along the bed as he swings his legs over, making room for Pete to sit down. 

"What's up, man?"

Pete takes a hesitant step inside. After all, he's never been good at the whole post-break up talk. Really, he ought to leave that up to someone with more skill with words like Jonesy or Henry, but fuck, he's here already. But if things are usually awkward after normal break ups, well, it's only worse now that it's Dovie who's done the dumping. Pete sighs as he takes a seat on the bed next to Beaver, biting his lower lip hard. He glances over, eyebrows flashing up for a second in a "what can you do?" look. 

"So," he says, slowly, hoping the next words will come out easier after he's said the first. Except they don't. His voice seems lodged in the back of his throat, and his tongue heavy. Pete thins his mouth, lowering his gaze, and he finds himself staring dully at Beaver's left hand, which is set palm down besides his thigh. 

It would be easiest to just say it, Pete figures. No dancing around the topic, just get it out of the way, lickity-split like that. However, it takes him longer than he wants to even get up the courage to try it. Pete swallows hard, and his hand is shaking when he slides it over to cover Beaver's own so they're resting lightly against each other. His gaze darts up. What Pete means to say is "Dovie, told me," but all he manages to get out is, "No Bounce. No Play." 

Beaver's eyes flicker down to Pete's hand, which has come to rest atop his. He hesitates for a few moments, breathing in a couple awkward breaths before he turns his hands just slightly, grabbing hold of Pete's index and middle fingers as he holds the younger boy's hand against his. He doesn't look up at Pete's face right away, and his eyes fix on the back of Pete's hand, a dreamy, hazed look clouding his eyes. 

A small smile passes over Beaver's face, but it doesn't stay. Instead, it trades itself for a rueful look, Beaver's lips twisting sideways, subconsciously returning the "what can ya do?" look. He licks his lips as if his mouth is too dry when he finally looks up at Pete and meets the younger boy's eyes. 

"No bounce, no play," he replies. There's a slight shrug of the shoulders, and Beaver just looks at Pete for a moment, before he looks back down at their hands. He thinks he should probably tell Pete what happened, but he can sense that Pete's not too keen on knowing the details. Hell, the Beav doesn't even know what Pete's doing there, feeling as awkward as he does. …Not that Beaver doesn't appreciate the sentiment. Hell, it's probably one of the things he admires most about Pete. Always the last person you'd suspect to be there. But he stands behind you and might stumble a bit, but he will catch you. 

Beaver's grip on Pete's fingers tighten a little, before relaxing. He swallows quietly before speaking again. 

"You want something to drink?"

Pete shakes his head, but he can't quite manage a vocal "no". Somehow he's still having trouble talking, and maybe that's because he's afraid that the next time he speaks he'll be saying the wrong thing. Instead Pete drops his gaze down to their hands, and his fingers somehow find their way to weave between Beaver's. He doesn't know what he's doing or trying to say through that. Easily it could be the "please don't move" that's lurking somewhere in the back of his mind, the same reason he didn't want to get drinks, because there's something comfortable about the two of them sitting next to each other.

Pete clicks his tongue off the top of his mouth, and he glimpses sidelong at his friend again. "Look, Beaver, if you need to... you know... I'm here for you, man. I don't want. I don't want things to be weird between us because of this," and although he stumbles a few times while he talks it's all said in one long rushed breath. And he's nervous enough over Beaver's response that he's shaking a little and his breathing has gotten shallow.

Beaver's eyes slip shut without even realizing as Pete's fingers thread through his own, and he can feel the heat of the Pete's fingertips pressing into his already clammy palm. His throat feels so fucking dry, and he thinks for a moment about leaning over and grabbing his glass of coke. It's not far, but the sudden movement could spook Pete, and hell. He likes the way Pete's sitting close to him like that. It's comforting and feels just -- well, fucking feels nice. 

"Nah, man. I know," he says to Pete's awkward offer. He knows that Pete's trying hard and is genuinely concerned about the friendship. Hell, he'd be concerned too if Pete ever decided to date his sister. Beaver thinks it's a good thing he only has an older brother, except that doesn't stop -- fuck. Can't think about that now. He thinks Pete's liable to do anything right now, just to help Beaver feel better. That's the last thing he wants Pete to do, just out of pity. 

But that doesn't seem to stop him from being stupid and doing stupid things. Because he's finding himself turning his head to face Pete, his eyes fixed on the younger boy's shoulder as he leans down, breathing in quick, shallow breaths as he brushes his nose against the side of Pete's neck. He knows he should pull away, but then again, he just wants to bury his face down against Pete's neck and shoulder, and not pull back for days. 

"It's ok," he finds himself saying, breathing quickly against Pete's neck. He licks his lips, swallowing as he keeps the tip of his nose rested against the side of Pete's neck, his hand trembling slightly in Pete's hold.

Pete's free arm slips around Beaver, hand resting neatly on his back, and he turns his body slightly so that they're fitted together. However, it's still a slightly awkward movement on Pete's part. He's never really held anyone but girls like this, and even then it's mostly been his sister when she's had a long cry. Thinking that somehow makes him afraid suddenly, not that he's holding Beaver so much, more that he doesn't know what he'd do if Beaver started to cry. 

It isn't that he hasn't seen Beaver cry before. He has when they were younger, and he remembers probably most keenly the time after that night, after the dream that none of them talk about where it was a particularly messy display of tears. Pete figures in this case it probably wouldn't be quite like that, maybe it'd be just quiet sobbing, but either way, Pete is scared of the idea. 

Still, he keeps on holding Beaver, maybe in his uncertainty holding him a tad too tightly so that he's almost pushing Beaver against him as his hand that's on Beaver's back, slides up and down in an attempt at a reassuring motion. His head is turned slightly so that his mouth is almost angled just above Beaver's ear. "I'm here," he says again, and then a third time, and it's all whispered very low, like a chant.

But Beaver doesn't cry. He can almost sense Pete's apprehension on the subject and sure, Beaver might feel like crying. Hell, it might make him feel a shit-load better, but he doesn't want to do that to his friend. Fuck, that's not the way to get around things. You don't cry about 'em. You get over them. And well, Beaver will be fucking damned if he won't get over this. 

So he takes a deep breath, pulling away from the crease of Pete's neck and shoulder, still looking down. He shakes his head slowly, as if to say, "Nah, I'm alright." But he can't seem to manage the words. His eyes are a bit glazed over and he sits back, more than enjoying the rhythmic movements of Pete's hand, sliding up and down his back. Up... and down. He sighs, leaning forward a bit as he lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. Pete's hand against his back is too fucking relaxing, and before Beaver realizes it, he's leaned forward so much, his forehead now rests on against Pete's brow. 

He doesn't move, though. He likes the way Pete's breath now falls against his mouth. Maybe it's his imagination, but he can almost feel Pete's breath shaking just as much as his own. That's good. He likes to know he's not alone in this. 

And Beaver can't seem to stop licking his lips, now feeling chapped. His mouth feels dry, and his eyes, now heavy, look down and glimpse a blur of Pete's mouth. There's a soft sheen on them, making Pete's mouth almost too fucking inviting. So wet and Beaver can almost taste it. He lets out a quiet exhale against Pete's lips, his own mouth parting slightly as he tilts his head, just a little. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, and it feels like there's not a damned thing he can do about it. But he's turning just a bit more, his nose pressing against Pete's as he lightly brushes his lips against Pete's mouth. And -- fuck, yeah... it is moist and warm and Beaver fights with all of his will power to pull away. 

"Sorry," Beaver hears himself barely whisper. He's not even sure if Pete caught it.

Pete doesn't move. He isn't even sure if he can. His hand on Beaver's back has stopped brushing up and down. In the moment, Beaver's lips had closed over his own, Pete's hand had gone rigid, fingers curling closed, nails scraping down Beaver's back as they did, and now it's just resting frozen in a half-fist against Beaver's back. His breath has also caught in his throat, mid-inhale, and holding it there has made his stomach tense and start to ache. He let's it out slowly, closing his eyes briefly as he does it, almost as if it takes that much effort to now do the simplest action.

"Nah, don't be," Pete says, trying to sound like everything's normal, shaking his head slightly. "I know. I know you're just fucking around." They've done this before, after all. Little kisses, touches and foolery… although Pete's not exactly sure how that fits into this situation. Because they're not really laughing or horsing around like usual, and Pete's always figured that the kisses by his porch that night not so long ago had put an end to it all that boyish play. But Pete doesn't want to think too much about it, or that he doesn't really want Beaver to stop. So instead Pete laughs, one that comes out a little staggered in his nervousness, because they should be laughing when they pull shit like this.

Pete draws his hand away from Beaver's back and swats him lightly on the shoulder. "You're such a fuck, you know," he whispers behind another half-breathed laugh and the hint of a smile curving on his mouth. Pete butts his head gently against Beaver's, so that their foreheads are pressed together again, and Pete's eyes are staring up into Beaver's own. 

Beaver shakes his head back and forth in little motions, not removing his brow from being pressed up against Pete's forehead. There's a small hint of a smile pulling up on the corner of his lips, and he looks down into Pete's eyes, trying not to reveal how short of breath just doing that makes him. 

"If I'm the fuck," he begins, lifting his head enough just to lightly butt it against Pete's head, "then you're the fuckarow." And that doesn't really make any sense, but since "fuckarow" is a longer word than "fuck", then it's definitely more insulting. Right. And Beaver's logic will surely get him far in life, if he'd only just stick to it. 

Beaver takes a deep breath, just looking down at Pete, and his free hand moves up to grasp on to Pete's shoulder. He doesn't really know what he's doing, his senses feeling muddled and murky as he reaches up, brushing his thumb down the length of Pete's throat, and back up again. He doesn't even want to explain to the younger boy that touching him seems to make Beaver feel better... comforted and relaxed. He just hopes that Pete won't ask, nor will he pull away. 

"I should probably stop kissing you someday, huh?" And the question doesn't really sound like a question at all. More like a thought he says aloud. Beaver's thumb continues to brush over the soft skin of Pete's neck, and he's so fucking tempted to just kiss the younger boy again. But he doesn't. Because maybe they did stop their foolishness that day on Pete's lawn. And maybe he should just listen to his own advice. 

And maybe he should try to stop himself from shaking like that.

"Probably," Pete repeats the word, and it's said just like that, an echo, without any real meaning or thought. It just slips out of him, maybe because it's the only acceptable response for him to say. But Pete finds he's feeling a little better about things now, that they're still able to joke like this and most of the awkwardness of before is gone. Already he's forgotten about Dovie. But there's something else now, that tinge of excitement, of recklessness, like he's spinning out of control. Somehow being this close to Beaver always makes him feel a little off-balance. It's not bad, so much as thrilling, maybe even a little scary.

Pete untangles his fingers from Beaver's and he wipes it quickly across the surface of Beaver's blankets. But with both hands free now, Pete lunges forth a little, shoving Beaver down against the bed, the flat of his arm resting neatly against Beaver's shoulders, pinning him neatly. Maybe in a sense, it's his way of regaining his control, his grounding. It makes him grin, mouth wide, flashing the whites of teeth, and his eyes getting a bit of a wicked gleam.

"Whatcha gonna do now, huh?" He taunts, leaning over Beaver, whose pressed beneath him, probably too snugly if he thinks about it, but he doesn't. This is all fun and games, and he slides in closer so that his forearm is locked down across Beaver's collarbone.   
Beaver falls none to gracefully back on his bed, and he shouts a loud "OW!" as his elbow connects with his bedside table. But he's still grinning up at Pete, breathing a bit hard at the sudden change of positions, and how Pete's laying atop him like that. He tries to remain still, wanting to look valiant under Pete's attack. . . but Pete is squirmy and wirey for a seventeen-year-old kid, and Beaver finds that if he moves his hips just a little, it creates a certain kind of friction he knows shouldn't be so pleasing. 

"Well, I suppose I can't do a fuckin thing right now, with your boney arms digging into my fuckin shoulders like that." And his lips purse up into a smirk, and his eyebrows flicker up above his glasses. Somehow, his glasses have risen up a bit from his nose, and are now just resting against his face. He's sure he looks fuckin silly like that. Hell, they're even crooked. He tries to move his left arm, a reflexive motion, trying to fix them. But he can't move because there's a wall beside him, and hell, Pete's got him a fucking awkward position. 

"Man, fix my fuckin glasses, will ya?" His chest rises and falls quickly against Pete's, and he can feel the younger boy's breath falling against his face. It's exhilarating and he can't seem to stop grinning like an idiot, no matter how much he wants to keep his face straight and try to appear not so intimidated.   
Pete's smile has faded slightly as he watches Beaver down beneath him, some part of him lost in studying the way the overhead light is reflecting off Beaver's glasses, or the way it plays with shadows on his face. His face has gone dreamy-eyed and distant, and he doesn't quite hear what Beaver says to him. He's too busy lifting his hand off Beaver's shoulder and running it down the side of his face, the pads of his fingertips skimming rough skin along Beaver's jaw-line. 

Still, some part of his mind registers something about Beaver asking him to fix his glasses, and he goes to do it, except that he takes them off instead, setting them aside so they won't be in the way. But this way he can see Beaver's face, the whole of it, the dark eyes that are watching him as he leans in closer. He smiles again, crookedly, so really only one side of his mouth is curving up, and setting his hand back down over Beaver's shoulder again, pressing down harder with the heel of his palm. 

"Yeah, I suppose you can't do a fucking thing," Pete says with a note of triumph. "And here's me, and I could do any fucking thing I wanted." He's almost close enough to kiss Beaver, and something about that makes his heart flutter with uncertainty. Maybe he's gone too far this time. Does this count so much as fucking around? He thought it did, but the way his mouth is grazing the side of Beaver's face and brushing vaguely over the curve of his lips is almost exactly the way he might fool around with a girl. He blinks a few times, hearing how loud his own breathing is, drawing away slightly, but not moving his arms from holding Beaver down. "You scared?" He asks, trying to sound taunting, except his voice is shaking when he speaks.  
Beaver's breath comes a bit short, and it catches in his throat a couple of times, making his chest hitch just slightly, pressing up against Pete's. He can feel the pads of Pete's fingertips brushing over face, his jaw, and his mouth goes slack as he stares up at Pete, his vision now slightly blurred and his glasses sitting on the table. He can see Pete perfectly, because Beaver's near-sighted, and shit, Pete's pretty fucking near, right about now. 

He can feel his own arms twisting up, as much as they can anyhow, what with Pete's hands still planted firmly in his collarbone. But it's enough so that his fingertips graze over Pete's shoulders, the soft fabric of Pete's t-shirt under his fingers. He can't help but to smile crookedly back at Pete, almost a mirror image of the younger boy's lopsided grin. His hips rise up just a little and -- fuck, he really needs to stop doing that. 

Blinking quickly at what Pete says, the younger boy's words floating dreamily across his mind's eye... any fucking thing I wanted. And Beaver's eyelids are growing heavy as he stares up at Pete, his eyes flickering from the other boy's eyes, to his mouth, watching the way Pete's lips slightly shake with each breath. And then the other boy is leaning down, brushing lips across his face. His face turns just slightly, causing Pete's mouth to graze just barely over his lips, and Pete pulls away. Beaver doesn't even know if he can answer when Pete draws back. And he quickly licks his lips, swallowing hard as he replies. 

"Fuck naw, I ain't scared." And he can feel himself shaking beneath Pete... or maybe it's Pete that's shaking. Or maybe they're both shaking because this could be pushing the boundaries of fucking around. But hey, if you can still smile, it's still just fucking around. So that's what Beaver does. He grins up at Pete, because hell, he isn't scared. This is just fuckin around. And Beaver's neck cranes up just a bit, but not too much. Pete's hold is still pretty fucking constricting, but it's enough so that he's able to lightly bite Pete on the chin. And he doesn't stop there. He starts at the base of Pete's chin, going along the other boy's jaw-line as he lightly scrapes his teeth. His mouth is trembling, but he's still trying to maintain that grin.  
The way Beaver's teeth are grazing across his skin makes Pete feel weak in the arms. Maybe Beaver's not scared, Pete realized, but he is. He couldn't say why exactly, just that he feels that sort of mad panic growing inside of him that makes his heart beat faster and his whole body tremble. He doesn't think he can hold himself up properly for much longer, and he knows that he hasn't got the strength to keep Beaver down if the Beav pushed back. He should move, Pete thinks dully, except that he doesn't seem to have enough strength for that. Besides, he can still feel the heat of Beaver's mouth across his skin, and fuck him, if he didn't just moan.

He hears it, a thready sigh pass his lips with just a little rumble of throat, and shit. Every muscle in Pete's body tenses after that, and he pushes himself off Beaver, because he shouldn't be enjoying this so fucking much. However, he can't let the Beav know that's the reason he's stopped their little games. Beaver is just playing after all that's all it ever is. Pete's licking his lips and he's still trembling slightly from the rawness of his nerves.

"Fuck, I think I could use that drink now," he says, his head lowered, staring at the floor, afraid to look Beaver in the eye after what he's felt and done and shit. Pete can barely string a coherent thought together, not with the way lust is clouding thickly over him and pumping through his veins straight into his brain. It's all little flickers of touch and taste and heat, and god, his cheeks are burning, and really he hasn't felt this excited since he thought he was going to see a picture of the homecoming queen's pussy.   
And it takes Pete pushing himself off of Beaver to make the older boy realize just what the fuck he was doing. Beaver has a moment to glance at Pete's face, the flush quickly creeping up his neck and covering his cheeks. Beaver feels his own face redden with shame, and he quickly pushes himself up, his hand almost slipping off the side of the bed with the way he's shaking with wrecked nerves. But he quickly nods his head, his mouth feeling like it's made of cotton. 

"Yeah," he hears himself say as he tries to sit up. His knees are a bit weak, and he doesn't trust them enough to stand. So he just sits there, hunched over and looking down at his green carpet. "Yeah, alright," he begins again. "My coke's fuckin flat anyways." 

Beaver pushes himself off of the bed, and reaches over to his night table and grabs his glasses. He glances back at Pete as he puts them on, and feels his stomach twist with guilt at the way the other boy's looking down like that. Yeah, Beaver knows he's fucked up. He's fucked up pretty bad, and now Pete can't even fuckin look him in the eye. He thinks maybe he should apologize, but he can't seem to get the words from being unstuck in his throat. 

So he just stands there, eyes flickering down to the floor again. He takes a step toward the door, and before opening it, he puts a hand on Pete's shoulder. "Let's go in the kitchen." He quickly lets go of Pete's shoulder, because he knows he's probably only making things worse by touching him. And he feels his eyes blur over again, with shame, and he has to look away so Pete won't see how fucking red his face is.   
Pete, however, doesn't quite notice Beaver's embarrassment. He's too busy feeling stupid over his own. He follows the Beav wordlessly out the door, wondering what to say next, and when he does, he figures he ought to apologize. Only, Pete doesn't seem to be able to say what he wants. Everything's been coming out wrong that entire night. They never even really discussed the whole issue that he'd come here for, but it doesn't matter now. Dovie and her relationship with Beaver seems old now. It may as well have happened a hundred years ago, because that's how distant it feels to Pete, and that means there's really no point in bringing it up now. Instead, he just goes with the Beav into the kitchen, both drinking their cokes, and maybe they'll go see a movie later. That's just how things are. Same shit, different day.

~fin  



End file.
